


What He Wrote

by Biscoote



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Blue/Pueple Hawke who goes red when he's upset because he's had a hard life, Gore, M/M, More tags to be added, PTSD, Semi unhealthy relationship, Skyhold AU, Title of fic might be changed later?, hawke is sad, slavery mentions, trauma mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 22:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscoote/pseuds/Biscoote
Summary: Fenris has completely moved on from his life in Kirkwall. He hasn’t thought of it in nearly two years now. His days, too busy for him to get distracted with petty thoughts of his past,  are spent relishing in the hunt of the biggest slave masters he can find in Tevinter. He lives to slaughter and liberate, becoming a well known vigilante and a symbol of hope among oppressed elves. When he suddenly gets summoned to Skyhold, baited by information and safety, what he finds there will change his life forever.[Self indulgent AU where Fenris joins the Inquisition.]





	What He Wrote

**Author's Note:**

> 'The strong mother doesn't tell her cub, son, stay weak so the wolves can get you. She says, toughen up, this is the reality we are living in.'

When Fenris thrusts his phantasmal fist into the weak, trembling body of a slaver, he always crushes the heart a bit harder than necessary.

And as the escaped slave violently rips his limb back out of the body, watching it crumple pathetically beneath him, Fenris can only feel proud. He finds himself overcome with an odd sense of satisfaction. Here he was, using the abilities that his slave master had forcefully burned upon him to kill the man’s own kind. He thinks of the infinite irony to it, the fact that in a way, Danarius had caused his fellow magister’s deaths.

Fenris stands above the slaver, triumphant, and he strokes the crimson gore between his thumb and forefinger, watching it spill over and drip through his fingers like a thick syrup onto the ground. 

The only visible wound on the form beneath him is that of the slow, pooling blood from his lips onto the pristine marble pressed at his cheek. His blood mingles disgustingly with his saliva, and Fenris only bats his lashes at the sight. He thinks of the liberated slaves, able to leave their captivity at their own will, and he thinks of the elves that will continue to be free, never having been captured in the first place. Fenris thinks of how he would like to cover the ornate flooring in their bodies until it the marble couldn’t be seen anymore. He thinks that only when he kills as many magisters as there have been enslaved elves, there will not be peace; not until the Imperium could understand the gravity of what they had done to his people.

But never, does he think of is his past with the Champion of Kirkwall. 

If it were up to him, he wouldn’t ever think of it again.  

As his thin, boney hands delve into his prey’s bloodied form, ruffling anxiously through their clothes, their irrelevant regalia, inding their slave licenses, contracts, and their ridiculously expensive jewelry, he finds that he hasn’t entertained the thoughts of his past affiliation with Kirkwall, his party, or the Champion, at all. It is over and he will never see them again, so it doesn't matter. And thus, rarely does he reflect on it.

However, this luxury of keeping his past brushed under a rug doesn’t come to him, as many luxuries do not, despite his wants. 

Fenris flees the scene with a hood pulled over his head, delving back into the wooded darkness like it was a comfort to him. And like a rabbit escaping the maw of a wolf, he runs from his predator, the clamor of metal and yelling voices behind him. 

He would have to be gone in less than a few minutes. They had found the body. 

 

❖-❖-❖

 

A few nights later, the moon is full, and Fenris sits silent in the back of a well traveled tavern, sliding a oil-coated rag down his blade with motions of careful admiration, rinsing the last few spots of blood off of it from a particularly ugly scuffle on the way over. As he brings his thumb gently against the sharp end and tests its lasting sharpness, he notices that the weapon would need a fresh whetting soon. He considers taking it to a nearby blacksmith soon instead. Lethandralis had brought him many victories over the years, and though old, nearly thirteen years in his possession now-and despite the fact that there were many better weapons to wield in Thedas- he had never had the heart to sell it. The sword sits balanced carefully against his knee as he works, a tankard of apple ale barely touched, rests on the fraying table beside him. The stench of stale sweat, vomit and blood is thick here, practically chokes you each time you inhale. He was here to rest, possibly get a room at the inn if he felt like it. The elf’s gaze flits anxiously up when a new body timidly enters the tavern, his ears trained to recognize the sound of a creaking door, the jingling bell above it, the sound of a new click of boots in a crowd of men. This sensation, similar to that of an animal being cornered, was not new to him. Fenris was used to being painfully aware of his surroundings, especially when under a roof, staring down the door like it was a piece of meat to a starving marbari.

When he ran away from Danarius, each set of eyes he gazed upon was a new threat. Every person who stared at him longer than was comfortable could only be assumed a risk to him and his mission. So, he watches her with hooded eyes, and continues the motions of cleaning his sword, but he doesn’t look at what he’s doing, not once, just in case. The form weaves their ways around the crowds of people, looking over shoulders and below arms to anxiously cast glances at each and every person’s face, their darting gaze and quick moving obviously giving way to the fact that they were obviously looking for someone. So, this wasn’t the first time his gaze had followed someone through a room like a verman staring down it’s predator. Killing powerful nobles didn’t exactly keep you unnoticed, and he’d had to flee a inn or tavern to keep his life and freedom many times before. This wouldn’t be the first time, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. He feels his bare toes press instinctively to the traveled wood flooring underneath him, readying for escape. But the person who locks eyes with him has a kind gaze, and he relaxes at it. She obviously wasn’t here to kill or arrest him. So he decides not to think about her anymore, and turns back to cleaning his blade. 

Soon though, regrettably, the figure is standing right in front of him.

“Fenris?”

He recoils like an abused dog at first, grabbing at his chair and startling to a stand as soon as he’s addressed. He hadn’t been addressed by his name in a year or more. It sounds foreign to him.

“The very same?” The warrior speaks warily. Fenris often lives in the shadows, unknown and unnamed, but it isn’t enough, it seems, as this nervous looking scout hands him off a letter. The paper is crisp, almost untouched, as if folded down and sealed earlier this morning, though he doubted that was the case. It’s clear that this person has traveled far to formally give it to him. No post, no carrier pigeons, just bureaucracy. She was sure it was him then. He figured he wasn’t exactly hard to single out. _‘Look for the lonesome elf with white tattoos, you’ll find him easy enough,’_ As he cautiously takes it from her, he notices a symbol has been firmly pressed over the melted wax that kept it’s enclosed contents secret. The symbol was an eye with a sword going through it, the whole emblem enthralled in sharp flames. As he glares back up at the woman who had given it to him, he notices she has this same insignia embossed into her chestplate. With a furrowed brow, Fenris realizes that he had seen this symbol around lately. Posts dug into the ground, flags billowing in the wind. Yes, he had seen it before. But he hasn’t payed attention to it until now. Not until he was faced with it, the regalia so clearly steaming under his nose. Every time he had seen it he’d passed it off as just another warring faction to not be considered again. They’d cause trouble for someone else, but rarely, did they cause trouble for him. 

Later that night, shrouded in nature’s dark embrace, he needlessly throws the magister’s documents into the crackling form of his campfire, his jaw locked uncomfortably despite the satisfaction of watching evil documents be destroyed. He watches the papyrus crimp and burn as if pained before being completely consumed by the heat. As he stares down into the deep indigos of flame, he considers letting the Inquisition's document join them. But something keeps him from it. A tender, calloused brush of his thumbs against the paper and he feels the wax under his fingers and gruffly sighs. The woman in the tavern had pulled down her olive-green hood and revealed her ears to Fenris in a quiet gesture of kinship before she spoke again. She pulled another, different scroll from her pocket and began to unfurl it. This one was less well kept and Fenris could see scribbles of messy ink across it through the backlighting of the lamps behind her.

_ ‘The Inquisitor, Farren Lavellan, and his Council, Lady Josephine Montilyet, Knight Commander Cullen Rutherford, and Leliana, The Nightingale of the Imperial Court, have requested your appearance at Skyhold. Your skills have been suggested as valuable to a upcoming undertaking by one of the members of our organization. In return, we offer food, lodging and information you may find valuable to your dutiful cause, which has been fully supported by our Herald.’ _

The scout had seemed stern, but kind as she read. As if she hoped her work would do her good. Their common race helped the way that Fenris regarded her but it didn’t stop his cold, crackly lack of compassion as he waved her off without a word, serving only a nod as he tucked the letter away. She seemed confused, but left soon after, appearing less confident than when she walked in.  _ The Inquisition.   _ The name was familiar, but he couldn’t say where he knew it from. Fenris always worked alone, and it was too dangerous to involve an organization in his work. A war would start. With one more disdainful look at the letter, he lets it join the blaze. As the wax drips like honey over the burning wood and sands, Fenris watches it pool at the base of his firepit.

A quiet sound startles him out of his thoughts, causing his form to leap to a readied position of attack as he stares back into the darkness and grits his teeth. He hears the shift of bushes beside him and turns without another thought, slipping on soft dirt and throwing himself into the darkness, yet again, with only his sword and the clothes on his back, leaving the fire, the dripping wax, and the ashen proof of his work behind him. And so, with his scrambling, he abandons the thoughts of the last few hours behind him.

He wouldn’t let himself think of the letter, or the Inquisition, or Kirkwall, for some time after that. 

 

❖-❖-❖

 

It’s only a month later when he finds himself prowling around some extravagantly decorated outer gardens that were owned by a slaver with a particularly bloody reputation of high standing.

It had taken Fenris weeks to buy off and do deals with the guards around the mansion to get the face of the palace this empty tonight. The lanterns flicker against dark Tevinter architecture, and the sight almost feels nostalgic to Fenris. Or it would, if his memories of it weren’t so tainted. Nevertheless, Tevinter had been his home, whether he liked it or not. 

Fenris had always tried to cover his tracks as best as he could, only working in the most opportune conditions and never leaving anything of his trace behind other than the body. He kept his face hidden, under a drawn hood, and spoke softly to the elves he freed, but the more Tevinters that he slaughtered, the harder it was to stay unnoticed. He could only recall a couple of people he had informed of what he was doing- but if he was fully found out by the Imperium, if he was caught, he’d be hung on spot, or worse, sold back into slavery. His mission would die with his capture. No one else seemed to care enough. He wouldn’t let it happen again. When he freed the elves, when he dutifully slaughtered their masters like weak cattle, he wouldn’t speak to the slaves directly. Risking nothing, he’d let them discover their newfound independence on their own. He’d leave a note on the bodies that said one thing and one thing only.  _ Run. _

He didn’t care what the slaves did with their freedom after that, as long as the master was dead and the slave was free. The choice of the city elves to sit homeless, disgustingly slumped and moping against alley barrels and resting in their own sick, wasting their autonomy, was their choice, as much as Fenris despised it. He hoped that they’d make more of their lives than that, at least. If he tried to control what these elves did with their lives by telling them where to go or what to do next, he’d be no better than the slavers themselves. They’d learn independence the hard way if they had to. 

Very quickly, his missions became less about saving slaves and more about slaughtering slavers. Of course, he felt for the slaves, he related to the aimless wandering of the newly liberated and knew their plight better than anyone, but it always felt nice to get a magister’s blood on your hands, to selfishly make them suffer for his own traumas. Soon, he learned that he didn’t have the time, nor the energy to sympathize. 

Often, he’d hear stories of freed slaves arriving at or being saved by the Dalish. Whether he approved of magic or not, he supposed they’d be safe there. Apparently he had been dubbed  _ Andruil  _ by some of the elves who knew a bit more about their culture. 

Andruil, the goddess of the Hunt. Their savior.

They said that he was a spirit. That sometimes he glowed just before the kill. 

He didn’t think too much of it.

Fenris picks the lock on the disgustingly extravagant front doors with a hairpin that he had learnt to keep against his ear, having picked up a few tricks from a rogue he had traveled with a while back. He couldn’t do anything amazing, no intricate, smart locks- but a simple click and switch hammer was easy. He remains under his hood, casting glances over his shoulder and working as fast as possible. Soon, the lock drops with a loud thud, and he pushes the door open, jumping into a quiet sprint. He knows now that someone in the building will have heard the noise, and will come to check out the source. By that time, he will be more than gone. Disappearing was a fairly easy task tonight, he had memorized the layout of this building, having found the old architect that had drawn the layout awhile back. After many late nights at the campfire studying over the plans, he knew it like the back of his hand, and so, confidently glides down the hallway, wandering like a lost spirit through corridors until he found what he was looking for. He passes big paintings, curtained windows, suits of armor and proud insignias, and he pays them no mind, the only thing he thinks of is the kill. The elf soon slips into the man’s bedroom, silent like a moth and drawing his sword with practiced delicacy. Usually, this was when he’d walk to the man’s place of rest, shaking him awake and telling him just why he was being killed before he plunged his hands inside of him and began to manually break his bones. Sometimes when he arrived, they were awake, sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes, they were found in their studies. Tonight, Fenris finds nobody here. Nobody to condemn to death for their actions. After a quick glances it was easy to discern that the room was empty. This wasn’t unusual, aside from the fact that it was the middle of the night, and most normal humans would have been asleep in their beds. Magister’s always did like to do their sinister bidding in the shadows of the evening. 

He turns, suspiciously gazing before he continues walking. This was how it went. Wandering silently until you sniffed out your prey. He hears nothing, or, the silence continues still, as he had never heard anything but himself in the first place. This also doesn’t remain. 

Fenris hears footsteps. They’re quite, obviously nervous and particularly feminine. He doesn’t have time to hide before the woman silently turns the corner into the same hallway he stood in. She was an elf. This was a new variable that hadn’t… quite been introduced before. “Don’t-” he starts to whisper as she begins to tremble, her gaze hollowing in fear. Fenris’s eyes widen as he realizes what is about to happen. She shrieks, knees knocking, and falls against the wall, dropping a tray with something on it that clattered and spun away. He didn’t bother to look. “Venhedis-” He runs forward, slamming his hand onto the woman’s mouth and pinning her to the wall with his arm. He trains his ears, listening for any sound of a guard,  of another body, but he hears nothing.  The corridor is eerily silent.“Leave this foul place. _Go-..o..”_ A stabbing pain is felt in his stomach and he chokes with it, his body falling forward onto her for a moment. He adjusts as he grabs her wrist and wrenches her grip from the knife, soon pulling it from himself with a weak, pained gasp. The nerves inside him spike, and horrid throbbing singes through him as blood begins to spill through his tunic. 

This has gone poorly so far, to say the least. 

Fenris’s heart is pounding and his throat is dry. His breathing has become deeper than it usually is, each exhale, an exhausted wheeze as if something was crawling down his esophagus. His lungs burn like the plague, and he grips his chest as he attempts to ground himself.

The knife had been coated in something. 

With a sick feeling of dread, he knows he has to leave. Now. “If you want to escape… Now is your chance-,” he weakly coughs out. She begins to cry. Fenris doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t harm her, and never will. He knows that the woman was put up to this. She was obviously a slave. Her clothes were tattered, and her cheeks were bruised. He could see red marks on the curves of her shoulders, obvious signs of reprimand. Her eyes looked dark and tired. If she hadn’t have stabbed him, she’d have been killed, or worse. He only wished he had gotten here before the threat was made.

This was a trap. It was all planned. Of course he couldn’t have gone through with this many kills in such a short time- He hears the clatter boots, shouting, and metal weaponry down the hallway as sweat begins to bead his brow. Using the last of his strength, he tosses the woman to the floor and limps to a nearby doorway, entering what looked like a library and seeking out a window to climb out of- to throw himself down out of, but it was wishful thinking, he was much too weak to hardly even stand, (it was getting progressively more difficult) and the sounds of men behind him were getting closer. 

Fenris’s lack of attention is downfall. His anxious need to abort his mission and abandon his plan had distracted him. His blind panic only brings him more unbearable pain as his head is grasped and slammed into the wall beside him. His nose hits something metal. Intricately designed for decoration, and he crumples to the ground, trying to gaze up at whatever had attacked him, seeing a soldier dressed in typical Tevene garb. His nose begins to drip crimson just as a boot finds his throat, pressing him down roughly to the floor by his windpipe. He struggles to breathe, coughing and gasping under the metal heel of the man above him. He sprawls his legs to escape, but they are feeble and he cannot stand. The elf hears more men filling the room, and by the sound of it, it’s at least fifteen, but his vision is getting cloudy. He feels a burning on his scalp as he’s roughly tugged upward by his hair, forced to gaze forward at the men who stood in the middle of the grouping of people in the room. The elf slave quivers in the hallway behind them, and he can only just barely see her beyond the doorway. 

“My, my, Fenris, you’ve gotten yourself into quite the trouble lately, haven’t you…?” Marcus Luteca, his target, the man he had come here to kill, speaks proudly to him, arms out, palms splayed and a smug look on his face. Fenris, disgusted, gives a particularly violent growl and the magister takes a nervous step back. “Bind him! Er-... more securely. You don’t know what this thing can do.” Another armored man behind him takes his arms and holds them painfully behind his back, his wrists encased in a gloved fist. The magister begins to sashay towards him, and Fenris becomes sick with horrid mania. 

Marcus reaches forwards at his face, gripping the elf’s cheeks between one hand. Fenris hates himself for being unable to recoil. “What was it Danarius called you? Little Wolf, yes?” The man slowly inhales before continuing, “Oh poor Danarius. It’s such a shame that his own pet was his end…” Marcus’s eyes darken. “He was weak, Fenris. He let you scape. He didn’t make full use of you or your abilities… Me, though? I’ll make sure you don’t go to waste.” His laugh turns Fenris’s stomach. “You know, the other magisters were trembling in their boots, horrified. But I never wavered. All it took was a little bit of drugs to put you out!” The pressure on his face and scalp is released suddenly, leaving Fenris to drop his head fully, silky white hair falling from it’s plaits and onto the floor. He cannot find the strength to lift it anymore. “You’ll not kill another magister, Fenris.” 

The elf attempts to make use his powers, tries to wrench himself from the grip by turning phantasmal, but the blue glow of the Lyrium was already so incredibly weak to the outside eye. He was losing consciousness- but-he still struggles, weakly sprawling his feet behind him. They push helplessly at slippery marble, but it was no use. He’d be catatonic in less than a few moments.  “You’re still fighting… Impressive. Don’t worry, you won’t die. I made sure of that.” 

Then he hears the slam of a bolt, and suddenly, whoever was holding him up drops with a racket like hundreds of pots all clattering together. And as Fenris hits the floor, he has nothing left to fight in him. He’s dizzy, and his eyes are drooping. Heavy. Blood pools from his nose and his torso, soaking his clothes. He hears a second clamor, more soldiers, yelling as he hears more bodies hit the floor. “Stop-!! Wait-” The main exposes his skin by yanking his head back from the floor. A blade presses to his throat, pricking his skin. “You obviously want him. If you shoot-I’ll kill him. He’s _mine."_

“Last time I checked, Fenris hasn’t been anybody’s for more than thirteen years now.” The sound of a crossbow firing again, the whip of an arrow flying through the air and then sinking into a man’s skull. Suddenly, Fenris is dropped once more, though now, he is completely unable to move. and as he loses consciousness, all he hears is a familiar voice.  

“Magisters always did talk too much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Song Title is from a Laura Marling song.


End file.
